by Harley Tate
Grant lifted his eyes to meet the stranger’s, but didn’t move his head. “We aren’t interested in you or what you’re doing here, so how about you leave and that’ll be the end of it.”
A smile spread wide and slow across the man’s face, splitting his beard in two. “Now what would be the fun in that? All we want is a little conversation, ain’t that right?”
Another man entered Grant’s vision. Bigger than the last, with a baseball bat resting on his shoulder, he stopped beside his friend. “Have we done something to offend you?”
“He was harassing a friend of mine.”
The new man raised an eyebrow. “That’s an awfully big word, harassing. Are you sure you didn’t mean making polite conversation? Because that’s what it sounded like to me.”
Grant inhaled through his nose and tried to calm the accelerated beating of his heart. “Just walk away and no one has to get hurt.”
The new man laughed, quiet at first, then louder and louder until he had to use the bat as a cane for support. “That’s a good one. Like you with that fancy little piece could ever be a match for us. I bet you don’t even know how it works.”
Grant knew the man purposefully pushed his buttons, but he didn’t care. He needed to be put in his place. The minute Grant showed weakness, he’d be prey.
Grant refused to be prey.
He moved until the barrel of the handgun lined up with the new man’s chest. “Want to find out?”
“Ooo-wee, he is a firecracker.” The new guy shook his head. “Too bad there’s only one of you.” He turned and motioned to his right. A moment later, six guys strode out from behind the front of the strip mall. “There’s eight of us.”
“Still leaves me an extra bullet.”
“Not if we get to you first.”
As if on cue, the group charged, six burly troublemakers running full-tilt at Grant. He backpedaled with his gun in front, waiting for anyone to brandish a firearm. He didn’t want to shoot first.
A crack of a shot sounded from behind him and the man closest to Grant fell to his knees. Blood bloomed across his shoulder and coated his fingers as he held them to the wound.
Grant whipped his head around. Dan stood at the edge of the trees, rifle aimed and ready. Damn it. I didn’t want to shoot anyone.
A roar rose up from the non-wounded and Grant forced his thoughts and feelings to the back corner of his mind. This wasn’t about right or wrong or how to leave peacefully anymore. It had turned into survival, plain and simple.
He wasn’t going to die on a street a mile from home because he told some thug to get lost. A man with a ponytail and a Braves T-shirt neared and Grant took aim. He fired and hit the guy in the kneecap.
The man fell to the ground screaming.
“Try not to kill them!” Grant shouted at Dan as he took aim at another, clipping him in the shoulder. The man kept running. Grant cursed and fired again, hitting him this time in the thigh. He fell to the ground.
Three rounds down, six to go. He fired at the next man and hit him in the arm. He stumbled to a stop, grabbing his bicep to slow the bleeding.
Another shot rang out from the trees and Dan clipped another aggressor in the shoulder. Only three men remained: the two he’d spoken to and one more from the melee now rolling around in agony in the street. The lone man on attack slowed and looked around at his friends.
“I told you, just leave and we’ll go. We don’t want to hurt any of you. We just want to be left alone.”
The hesitating man threw up his hands and took off, disappearing behind the building.
Grant took aim on Mr. Baseball Bat. “Just walk away.”
The man tilted his head and stared at Grant for a moment. “You’re tougher than I gave you credit for.”
“Leave or the next bullet will be for your chest.”
The man swung the baseball bat in a loose circle in front of him. “Next time we meet, we’ll be better prepared.”
“So will we.”
Grant stood still as the two approached their compatriots in the street, helping them limp to standing positions and hobble back toward the front of the stores.
Dan strode up, rifle still loaded and ready.
Grant kept his eyes on the retreating pack of bullies. “You didn’t need to shoot.”
“I can’t carry two backpacks. If I hadn’t shot, they’d have swarmed you.”
Grant cast Dan a glance. “So you did it for the gear?”
“Of course.” Dan grinned. “You think I care about saving you?”
“Where’s Oliver?”
“Back behind the trees. I think he pissed his pants.”
Grant exhaled and clapped Dan on the back. “Welcome to the apocalypse.”
Chapter Eighteen
LEAH
59 Parrot Lane
North of Atlanta, Georgia
Friday, 7:00 p.m.
Leah connected the IV to the line now running from Mary’s arm and hung it on the bedpost. She smiled at the woman. “You should start feeling better in a day or two.”
Neil stood beside the bed, staring at the bag of fluid. “How often do I change it?”
“For the first two days, every time it runs out. Then you can slow and gradually taper until you’ve used at least eight. If she’s feeling better, you can stop and save the rest, but if she’s not, keep going until they’re gone.”
Mary tried to speak, but a cough came out instead. After a few moments, she tried again. “Thank you for all you’ve done. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Leah smiled. “You’re welcome.”
She eased out of the room and let Neil and his wife have a few moments alone.
Aiden stood in the hallway, listening. “Is my mom going to be all right?”
“I hope so.”
“What about you?”
Leah frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Will you be all right?”
“I—I—” Leah didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t had time to think about herself or take a break or even look in the mirror since she set off with Neil earlier that day.
Neil shut the door to the bedroom and smiled at his son. “You aren’t bothering the nice nurse, are you?”
He shook his head.
“Good. Now go on and get ready for bed.”
“Da-ad.”
“Now, Aiden.”
The little boy stomped off and Neil managed an apologetic smile. “He can be a little blunt.”
Leah wondered how bad she had to look for everyone to be handling her with kid gloves. She had to get out of there and back to Tilly’s where she could let her guard down and assess the wound. “I should be going.”
“Right.” Neil stuck out his hand. “Thanks for everything. Sorry we couldn’t get you antibiotics.”
Leah shook it off with a nod. “It’s okay. I’m sure somewhere up by my sister’s place will have some.” She said a few more vague pleasantries about his wife and her speedy recovery and darted out the front door.
Tilly welcomed her in with a gasp. “Lord have mercy, what did that man put you through?”
“That bad, huh?”
“You look like your head’s been through a meat grinder.”
Leah winced. “Can I use the bathroom?”
Tilly waved Leah that way and she walked into the bathroom. Clenching her teeth, she braced herself before looking in the mirror. Oh, wow.
Where careful stitches pulled together clean skin the day before, now there lurked a nasty, raised welt of a wound with oozing pus and swollen ridges. She reached up to her hair and let out a cry when she moved it. Her entire head burned in pain with every move of her scalp.
Leah gripped the edge of the sink and stared until the facts couldn’t be ignored. I have to open it back up. I have to drain the wound.
She grimaced. Could she do it on her own? With no numbing agent or painkillers?
She stared at her scalp. Could she solider on and make it to Hampton without treatment? S
he already knew the answer. No way could she walk for miles with a festering head wound. At a minimum, it needed to be cleaned and drained.
If she didn’t, she’d succumb to fever and headaches before she made it a mile down the road.
Leah leaned closer to the mirror. Maybe if she popped a few stitches it would drain and she could stave off anything worse. Leah snuffed back a wave of tears. The pain clouded her vision.
I don’t have a choice.
She walked out of the bathroom and found Tilly in the kitchen already heating up boiling water on the stove. “I figure we sanitize everything as best we can. Then you douse that whole head of yours in vodka.”
“What about the gin?”
“I drink gin. We aren’t pouring any more of that on your head.”
Leah cracked a smile. “Do you by any chance have sharp scissors and a razor?”
Tilly raised an eyebrow.
“I need to shave my head.”
Half an hour later, Leah sat in front of Tilly’s bedroom mirror cutting the last bit of blonde hair off her scalp. She soaped her head all over, wincing as the bubbles came into contact with her wound. Using the razor, she shaved as close as she dared to the stitches, groaning in pain as the blades ran over swollen skin.
She’d resisted doing it before to preserve her hair, but now she didn’t have a choice. Every strand could collect dust and germs and bring on a worse infection. It all had to go.
By the time she finished removing the last bit of hair, the sun sank below the horizon and Tilly turned on the oil lamp.
Leah stared at her bald, angry head in the mirror. “I always wondered what I’d look like bald.”
“What do you think?”
She smiled. “I look better with hair.”
“Don’t we all, dear.” Tilly handed over a towel and the bottle of vodka. “Let’s get started.”
Leah draped the towel around her shoulders and clipped it tight. Tilly uncorked the vodka and held it in a shaky grip above Leah’s head. “Tell me when.”
Leah gritted her teeth. “Ready.”
The scream that poured from Leah’s mouth sounded less human than feral beast. She squeezed her hands into fists and nearly beat a hole in her thighs as the liquor coated her wound.
Tilly stopped pouring and capped the bottle. “Now comes the fun part.”
Spots swam before Leah’s eyes. She gripped the dresser as the room spun. “I need a minute.”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Over and over, she worked on training her breath and her heart to align. She’d seen doctors do something similar before surgery; bringing their heart and their minds to the center ensured a steady hand. Maybe it would help her.
She picked up the sharpest knife from Tilly’s kitchen and held it over the open candle flame on the dresser. With the swelling of the wound, she could barely make out a single stitch. She would start with the bottom. If she were lucky, it might be enough to release the trapped infection and she could leave the rest intact.
Leah leaned closer to the mirror and searched for the invisible thread. “I should have used neon.”
“All out of that, I’m afraid.” Tilly patted her shoulder. “You’re doing just fine.”
With the knife in hand, Leah tried again. A hint of something plastic caught her eye and Leah went for it, tucking the knife between two sections of angry skin. She sawed back and forth as tears welled in her eyes. The plastic thread gave and the bottom of the wound opened.
No pus came out.
Damn it. Leah exhaled. “One more and hopefully that’s enough.” She repeated the process, digging for a stitch at the top of the wound. It popped free and a gush of pus followed, draining down her forehead and cheek and dripping onto the towel.
“Good heavens, that’s nasty.”
Leah managed a tortured laugh. “I’ve seen worse.”
“I bet you have.”
As the pus drained, Leah wiped it away with a clean washcloth. After a minute or two, it slowed and she inspected the wound. “Hit it with some more vodka will you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tilly doused the wound in vodka again, glugging it out of the bottle while Leah bit back another scream.
When Tilly finished, Leah wiped at her face and tears. The wound was still swollen and angry, but she could see living tissue. Her skin hadn’t started to die. “That should do it. If I can keep it breathing and draining, it will give me a chance.”
She still needed antibiotics, but with the pus running and the tissue disinfected, she might make it to Hampton without collapsing. Leah cleaned up the mess with Tilly’s help and stood up on wobbly legs. “If you don’t mind, can I sleep on your couch again tonight?”
The older woman smiled. “Of course, dear. Let’s get you tucked in.”
Saturday, 8:00 a.m.
Leah sat at the kitchen table with a full belly and a pounding head. Although less swollen than the night before, her wound now leaked a steady stream of fluid as it drained. She held a paper towel up to catch the dribbles.
“Are you sure you want to leave?” Tilly sat across from her, sipping tea.
Leah nodded. “I have to get to Hampton. It’s been a week since the bomb. My husband has to be frantic.” She thought about all the things Grant would do if he thought she were out there somewhere, hurting and unable to make it home. “I can’t wait any longer.”
Tilly nodded and pulled something out of her lap. “Then take this. I don’t know how recent it is, but it should help.” She slid a map of Georgia across the table.
Leah pushed it back. “I can’t possibly. You might need it.”
“And where do you think I’m going to go?” Tilly pushed the map into Leah’s hand. “You need to find your husband.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got a stocked pantry and a neighbor who owes me a pretty big favor thanks to you.”
Leah smiled. “Okay.” She unfolded the map and spread it out on the table.
Tilly leaned over and pointed out her street. “If you stay on Rose Garden until Medlock, it’ll run right into Highway 82. That’ll take you straight up to Hampton. Don’t know about sidewalks, but traffic’s not an issue, is it?”
Using her fingers as a guide, Leah estimated the distance to be a shade over eighteen miles. At three miles an hour and breaks on the way, she could be at Hampton by nightfall. She sighed in relief.
Only one more day.
She couldn’t wait to hug her husband and sister and put the horror of the past week behind her. She stood up and gathered her things.
Tilly smiled. “You go get that man of yours and don’t let anyone stop you.”
“I won’t.” As the older woman stood up, Leah wrapped her in a fierce hug. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re welcome. Now go.”
Leah took one last look around Tilly’s kitchen, slung her duffel over her shoulder, and headed toward the front door. After glancing at the map, she stepped out into the early morning light.
Chapter Nineteen
GRANT
Boundless Sports
Smyrna, Georgia
Friday, 8:00 a.m.
After making it back to his house, Grant collapsed in a heap of spent adrenaline and exhaustion. He’d shot three people. A week without power and six days after a nuclear bomb and he’d already resorted to gunfire.
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. There had to be a way to bring the neighborhood together. After the sporting goods store fiasco, they had to understand how serious and heavy everything was about to become.
Stan dying in the middle of the street would pale in comparison to starving kids and desperate parents. Grant thought about Stan’s wife Debbie and glanced at the front door. I should check on her. See if she needs anything.
He stood up and the dog stood with him, keeping tight to his side. “You want to come this time?”
She looked up at him in answer and he bent t
o rub her head. Every time, she let him a little closer and pet her a little more. He smiled. “All right. But it’s just down the street.”
Together, they walked out the front door. The dog kept close, never venturing too far from Grant despite the lack of a leash. They stopped at Debbie and Stan’s front door. Grant knocked.
He glanced down at the dog. “Maybe she didn’t hear me.” He knocked again, this time using the side of his fist.
The door creaked open. “Debbie?”
Grant toed it wider. The dog smelled it first. She whined and ran in a circle around Grant’s legs. He glanced back at the street. No one else was outside. He turned back to the house. “Debbie? Are you in there?”
The dog whined again.
“You can keep watch, but I’ve got to go in.” Grant stepped into the house and the smell intensified. Worse than rotting garbage, it made him shield his nose and breathe through his shirtsleeve.
Grant called out again. “Debbie! Debbie where are you?”
No response.
He eased through the dark first floor, checking the empty kitchen and office, even opening the bathroom and laundry room doors. She wasn’t there. Either she’d left to go visit with a neighbor or…
He hesitated at the stairs. Grant knew the smell. He knew what it meant, but he didn’t want to admit it. Hadn’t anyone offered to help her bury Stan? Had she lived with him all this time, decaying on her bed?
Climbing the stairs, the smell gagged him with every breath. He stopped outside the master bedroom and exhaled. “Debbie? Debbie are you in there?”
Nothing.
Grant reached for the doorknob and pushed the door open. He dropped his hand covering his mouth.
“Oh, Debbie.” She lay beside her ashen husband, a plastic bag over her head. Grant remembered her words: What am I going to do without him?
Now she didn’t have to worry. They were together again in death.
Grant pulled the door closed and descended the stairs, staring again at photo after photo of the pair once happy, and who were now decomposing in their bed.
